Poems
Or as a flame which burns its way
Elate, through fields of scorching grass,
Nor knows its power to sere and slay,
Nor where its molten footsteps pass;
Even thus his burning spirit was.
Elate, through fields of scorching grass,
Nor knows its power to sere and slay,
Nor where its molten footsteps pass;
Even thus his burning spirit was.
Where teemed a gulf of nights and days
Chaotic, he from the blank sod
Called from those shapeless, voiceless ways
Divinely as a fashioning god
Another world where Beauty trod.
Chaotic, he from the blank sod
Called from those shapeless, voiceless ways
Divinely as a fashioning god
Another world where Beauty trod.
Such was his recompense, but when
He gazed astonished at the thing
Wrought with pure fire of heart and brain
A surging tumult seemed to sting
His blood, and round his being cling.
He gazed astonished at the thing
Wrought with pure fire of heart and brain
A surging tumult seemed to sting
His blood, and round his being cling.
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